


For the Ends of Being and Ideal Grace

by elrhiarhodan



Series: The Wonder(ful) Years Verse [17]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, M/M, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the Wonder(ful) Years ‘verse (School Age - College Age - Early Career A/U). It’s 1993, his five months of training at the FBI Academy are done, and Neal has to make a decision about the rest of his life, or at least his career with the FBI. Peter and the family show up for graduation, and the guys can’t wait to be alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Ends of Being and Ideal Grace

“Mr. Caffrey, come in.”

Neal had been given a message to report to the Administrator’s office after he finished his firearms certification. All he had left were the final simulations on civil rights and interrogation procedure and he’d be done. His thesis was turned in, all of his exams completed. By this time tomorrow, he’d be ready for graduation.

And the rest of his life.

There were four men in the room. He recognized one, Special Agent Michael Stokes, one of the two field counselors for his class. Another man was wearing a button-down with the Academy logo and a nameplate – “C. Emerson.” The other two were in suits, gold shields prominently displayed on their belts.

Agent Stokes was smiling, and gestured for him to take a seat. He even pulled out a chair for him. But Neal was wary.

“Is there a problem, Sir?” None of the men, except for Stokes, gave away anything in their expression. And Stokes had excused himself from the room – so there was no help there.

“C. Emerson” introduced himself as the administrator in charge of trainee placement, and the other two agents as SAIC Hughes and AD Bancroft. The two men held out their hands and Neal shook them.

“Mr. Caffrey, do you know why you’re here?” Emerson asked.

“I would guess this is about my post-graduation assignment. ”

“You’ve indicated in every questionnaire that you’d like to be placed with Art Crime.”

“Yes, that is correct. I …”

Emerson held up a hand, cutting him off.

“You had to know that a slot at Art Crime was a long shot.”

Neal nodded. “I am aware that Art Crime hasn’t accepted a probationary agent in over a decade.”

“And yet you consistently expressed a preference for such a position. In fact, you did your thesis on the Gardner Museum heist.”

“I had hoped that my research and insight into that crime would display my fitness for an assignment with that division.”

Emerson opened a folder, and Neal could see enough of it to realize that it was his dossier. His glance flicked up from the file to the other two men in the room. So far, except for introductions, neither agent had said a word.

The file closed with an emphatic slap, drawing Neal’s attention back to Emerson.

“Most trainees with your qualifications would be looking for an assignment in organized crime or anti-terrorism, not some sleepy division populated by aging academics working their way to mandatory retirement.”

Neal felt himself flush. This wasn’t going well, and he didn’t know how to fix it.

“Caffrey – you’re at the top of your class.” There was a wealth of exasperation in that statement.

“Thank you?” He couldn’t help but make his reply into a question.

“You have to know that you are at the top of your class in everything. You have perfect marks in every academic course, you have perfect firearms scores. You’ve broken records on all the physical requirements. You should be insufferable, but your classmates seem to think you’re the best thing since sliced bread.”

Neal didn’t know what to say.

“Unless you completely screw up your last two sims, graduation is going to be the ‘Neal Caffrey Show’ – do you understand what I mean?”

He shook his head, he really didn’t.

“You are aware that there are honors that are given out for each graduating class – for the best scores in academics, physical training, firearms proficiency, and a peer award as well.”

That Neal knew, and he hoped he was going to get at least a mention for his firearms proficiency.

But Emerson shocked him. “You’re getting all of them. That just doesn’t happen.”

“Sir, am I being accused of cheating?” There was a sick, cold knot in his belly. After everything, _this?_

Emerson was quick to react. “No, no – absolutely not. It’s just that your career choice confounds us.”

“If there isn’t a slot in Art Crime – ”

Emerson cut Neal off again. “You’re putting us in a difficult position, Caffrey. Given your record here, we would place you with your first choice of assignment without question. And you should know that there has been some discussion about doing just that. Even though the Art Crime division is being relocated to D.C., if we give you that posting, you’re going to have very limited opportunities for promotion.”

_Shit - Art Crime was moving to D.C.?_ Neal didn’t know what to do or say. Yes, he wanted Art Crime, but he wanted New York City more. He licked his lips. “What are my other choices, sir?”

Emerson leaned back in his chair, for the first time a smile appeared on his face. “I’m going to let Assistant Director Bancroft and Agent Hughes talk to you about that.”

AD Bancroft outlined the work he did in Anti-Crime, working with the DEA on drug interdiction, as well as several joint operations with the Organized Crime division. These were all high profile task forces – positions that would guarantee him a meteoric rise within the Bureau, especially if he was reporting directly to an assistant director. But they didn’t appeal to him. Despite the words and promises, what it boiled down to was a lot of fetching coffee and doing scut work for the senior agents on the team.

Then it was Hughes’ turn, and his spiel was much the same, except that Neal would be working for him in the newly named “White Collar” division, focusing on financial crimes. 

Neal immediately perked up, and he remembered something that he shouldn’t have ever forgotten. This was _the_ Agent Hughes, Peter’s new boss.

_Hughes is one scary-looking bastard – sort of an older version of Principal Hughes from elementary school – I wonder if they’re related and wouldn’t that beat everything? Anyway, Hughes is tough, but he’s really smart and really fair. I may be just off of my probie term, but that doesn’t seem to matter to him. He treats me like everyone else, he listens when I speak and encourages me to contribute to the operation. He really makes me want to earn his respect._  


He pushed that memory aside and concentrated on what Hughes had to say. “We’re in the middle of a major insider trading operation, and your experience with SEC cases would be invaluable, Caffrey. You know, it’s rare for attorneys of your, well, caliber and salary level to come into government service.”

Neal warmed at that praise. “I always planned on going into law enforcement. If the FBI hadn’t made me wait a few years, I would have applied right out of law school.” Even to his ears, he sounded a bit petulant. The agents chuckled. Neal also had to note, “I worked in criminal defense, sir. And I would be conflicted out if you were pursuing any clients of my former employer.”

“Only those which you were actively working on.” Hughes replied. He leaned back in his chair, waiting to see if Neal was going to bite at the offer.

He was.

Hughes offered another enticement. “Art Crime is moving to DC, and will be losing headcount and resources because of budget cuts, so if there are any cases that come up in our jurisdiction, we’d get first crack at them. That means that you’d get to be part of that, too.”

Neal didn’t pounce on the offer, though he should have. He kept silent, mulling over the options, and the potential problems.

Emerson got up and thanked both AD Bancroft and Agent Hughes, but just as both men were about to leave, Neal stood up.

“Sirs – thank you both for speaking to me. I realize that your offers are extraordinary.”

Bancroft smiled. “But you’re really set on joining the Art Crime unit?”

“No, sir. Well, yes – but I don’t think that taking that assignment is going to be right for me at the moment – as Agent Emerson has suggested.” Especially since it’s going to be in Washington, not New York City.

“So, you’re interested in which posting?” Bancroft’s question was gentle, and Neal had a feeling that if he took the slot in Anti-Crime, he’d enjoy working for this man.

“Agent Hughes, I have a question.”

The man nodded at him to proceed.

“You have an agent on your staff – Peter Burke?”

Hughes gave him an odd look. “Yes – he’s on the insider trading task force I was telling you about. He’s a good agent.”

Neal swallowed; he was about to step into a minefield and had to navigate carefully. “Peter’s my best friend. We’ve know each other since junior high school.”

Hughes blinked, but kept silent.

Neal continued, “We were at Harvard together, too. We lived in the same house when I was at Harvard Law and Peter was at the Business School. If I end up in New York City, we’ll probably share an apartment. Is this going to be a problem?”

Hughes simply asked, “Will you have a problem taking orders from Agent Burke?”

“No, not at all.” Neal never had that problem – at least not inside the privacy of their bedroom. _And *that* was not something he should be thinking about here and now._

Emerson gave him a funny look. “You know, Peter Burke was the only other trainee that I can remember who had scores as consistently high as yours. He just about swept the honors board, too. Something in the water where you grew up?”

Neal shrugged. “Peter had a perfect GPA at Harvard, it doesn’t surprise me.” Of course he knew that Peter had been top of his Academy class on almost every vector, but he didn’t think he needed to share that.

“So, you’re going to come and work for me, young man?” Hughes’ question was put in a tone that didn’t brook any contradiction.

Neal held out his hand, and Hughes took it. “If you’ll have me, sir.”

They spoke for a few minutes, and Neal actually felt it necessary to apologize to the Assistant Director. “Your offer was enticing, sir.”

“But it’s not what you want, is it?”

“I think if I hadn’t been so set on Art Crime, maybe.”

“Your father was a cop, wasn’t he?”

Neal shouldn’t have been surprised that Bancroft knew that – it was certainly part of his records. But he didn’t get the relevance of the question. “Sir?”

Bancroft clarified his statement. “He was on the NYPD’s Organized Crime task force. Don’t you want to follow in his footsteps?”

Neal was startled by the question, he hadn’t known that. “At one time, all I wanted to do was be a city cop like my dad. He was killed during a holdup at a grocery store in Washington Heights, protecting some customers. I was eight when it happened. My life was never the same.”

Bancroft looked like he was about to say something else, but instead smiled. “You’ll do very well with Agent Hughes and White Collar. And there will always be some art gallery theft or forgery for you to sink your teeth into.”

At that, the two agents departed. Neal looked at Emerson, completely bemused by everything that just happened.

Emerson had nothing to add, except to congratulate Neal. “You made a good choice. Reese Hughes is one of the best, and he knows how to handle probationary agents. You won’t regret it.” He clapped Neal on the shoulder and left the room

Neal stuck his hands in his pockets and smiled. White Collar or Art Crime, it didn’t matter. He was going to be in New York, with Peter. And then the reality of his choice hit home. He was going to be working in the same division, the same office as Peter. Probably on the same projects.

He didn’t know if he should be elated or terrified.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal aced the last two simulations, even though he could barely contain his glee. After the interrogation sim, the monitoring instructor pulled him aside and gently suggested that grinning like an idiot was not the best demeanor for interrogating a murderer. It didn’t affect his final score, though.

O’Donnell was in the room when Neal arrived, shoving his clothes into a duffle bag like they were body parts he needed to dispose of.

“What’s the matter?” It wouldn’t have surprised Neal to hear that Walter had flunked out.

“I’m getting _fucking_ shipped off to _fucking_ Kansas – the _fucking_ Resident Agency office in _fucking_ Fort Walton fucking Kansas. Fuck, and fuck me again.”

Neal blinked. He didn’t think that probies were ever sent to the tiny Resident Agency offices – they were the equivalent of Siberia, especially in a state that didn’t have a single field office. To start off one’s career like that - shit. But then, this was Walter O’Donnell, who thought that his good looks and family connections would be enough to guarantee him a slot in D.C. or on his home turf in Los Angeles. He never studied, never took firearms practice and was consistently put on the mat during hand to hand combat. Neal himself had to carry him out of at least two training sessions in Hogan’s Alley. If his uncle hadn’t been a senator, he probably would have been kicked out of the program. The guy was a total loser. But still. “I’m – umm – sorry to hear that.”

Walter turned on him. “And where are you heading to, golden boy? Mr. I’m So Perfect My Shit Don’t Stink?”

Although Neal despised O’Donnell and never made a secret of that, he also had a policy of never kicking a man when he was down. But before he could say anything, Walter answered his own question. 

“I guess you’re going to join the rest of the faggots at Art Crime, right? Better not bend over when you do the filing.”

Neal saw red. There were so many ways he could handle this. He could beat the crap out of O’Donnell (which would likely end his career before it started), he could simply ignore him (which was probably the best thing to do), or he could cause the maximum amount of pain with the least possible damage (which would be the most satisfying).

“Actually, no I’m not. They offered me a slot with Art Crime, which is moving to D.C. I had two other, more enticing offers. The Assistant Director in charge of Anti-Crime came to the Academy to make his pitch. So did the head of the new White Collar division in the New York City field office. They both travelled down from New York just to talk to me.”

“You son of a bitch.” 

Neal tried not to smile. The rage pouring off of O’Donnell was palpable. “I took Agent Hughes up on his offer to work in White Collar. And I’ll get first dibs on any art crimes that come into the office, even as a probie.” 

Walter didn’t say another word, and stormed out of the room, bag in hand. Neal wondered if that asshole was going to show up for graduation.

He finished his own packing – everything except for his suit. It was his favorite, and one that Peter liked the best on him. It was his lucky suit, too – he had second chaired on several trials, and this was the suit he wore when the verdict was read. Each time, his (or rather his firm’s) client was acquitted. Maybe it was a silly thing, but it also felt right to be wearing this on the day he graduated.

Peter, after all, had a lucky tie.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter put his badge on his belt, donned his suit jacket and straightened his tie. It was his lucky one, the one he wore when he made his first arrest, and the one he was going to wear for the first time he’d see Neal in nearly five months.

It was brown polyester with red and orange dots. Or were they flowers? It also had to be the ugliest tie in creation. But he didn’t care. It was his _lucky_ tie.

His mother knocked on his hotel room door. “Sweetheart, are you ready?”

Peter didn’t bother to answer, he just let her in. 

“Well, don’t you look handsome?” She cooed in a thoroughly maternal fashion.

“You’re my mother; you’d think so no matter what.” He grinned at her.

Cathy smiled back. “I suppose. But that tie, Peter. Where did you get it, the clearance table at Klein’s?”

Peter sighed. “I think Klein’s has been out of business for twenty years, Mom.”

“That’s what I mean.”

“It’s my lucky tie.” He laid a hand over it, as if to defend it.

“Did Neal give that to you?”

“No!”

“No, of course he didn’t. Neal has taste. Good taste.”

The truth was, the day he had made that arrest; Peter had spilled coffee on his tie. He should have known better than to try to drink coffee on the subway. Since he couldn’t go to the office tieless, he bought one for five bucks in Chinatown. He had no clue that he’d be leading the raid on a boiler room operation that afternoon.

His mother wouldn’t let up. “It’s Neal’s graduation. There will be pictures taken. You can’t wear that tie.”

“Mom!” He stepped back, away from his mother’s clutching hands. 

“You don’t have a better tie with you?”

“No, I don’t. And this really is my lucky tie.”

Cathy shook her head. “I packed an extra tie for your father - a nice blue one. I think Neal may have given it to him for Father’s Day a few years ago. You’ll wear that.” Her tone brooked no disapproval. “You won’t embarrass Neal with that thing you’ve got around your neck.”

He didn’t think Neal would really care about his tie, but unless he wanted to wrestle with his mother about it, he’d have to change.

Peter pocketed his wallet and room key, and followed her into the hotel room she and his father were staying in. “Has Ellen Caffrey shown up?” Peter really hadn’t wanted to ask. When he spoke to Neal a week ago, he told him that he had sent her an invitation.

“Yes, she did - we saw her at breakfast.”

Surprised, Peter picked his words carefully. “How was she?”

“More sad and resigned than hostile. I never would have expected her to be …”

“Such a bigot?”

His mother nodded. “But you never really know people, do you? Ellen was a cop for almost forty years and I never once heard her say anything like what she said to Neal. It boggles my mind.”

“How can she still be like this?”

His mother looked at him, sadness making her look far too old. “She’s here, and she’s trying. I think Ellen realizes that if she completely alienates Neal, she’ll lose the only family she has left.”

“That isn’t the point.” Peter tried to control his anger. “She shouldn't hate him for what he is - and she shouldn't look for a reconciliation just because she realizes that she’ll have no one. That’s not right, and you know it.”

His mother handed him the promised tie and Peter took the ugly, lucky one off. This one was actually long enough for a double Windsor and as he knotted it, Peter had to admit it looked a hell of a lot better that the brown thing that his mother dumped in the waste basket. Peter didn’t say a word as he retrieved it, rolled it up and stuck it in his pocket.

“I know, honey. It’s not right – especially not for Neal. He loves Ellen like she’s his mother – and she pretty much has been.”

“She also threw Neal out because he told her he was gay. She called him a dirty faggot.”

“She regrets that.”

“If it wasn’t for you and Dad…” Peter shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. He turned to his mother, and she gave him a watery smile.

“We love you, no matter what. We want you to be happy.”

Peter wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight. “Thank you.”

Cathy extricated herself from his grasp. “Don’t thank me just yet. I told Ellen that she could ride with us to Quantico.”

He gritted his teeth. “She’d better keep a civil tongue in her mouth.”

“I already told her that we’d dump her on the side of the road if she couldn’t be nice.”

They met up with his father and Neal’s aunt in the hotel lobby. His dad had a pained smile on his face and Ellen Caffrey- the woman who had loved and cared for Neal like he was her son – wore a pinched and bitter expression. His mom tried to smooth things over, but Ellen wouldn’t look at him. This was going to be a lovely drive.

The trip took about a half-hour, and Peter was surprised at the pleasure he took in flashing his badge at the guard station. It was so strange to be back here. 

It was a short walk to the main Academy building, but there was something he needed to do. Instead of letting his father handle Neal’s aunt, he asked his dad to give him some privacy. Joe took Cathy’s arm and they walked a few paces ahead of Peter.

Ellen Caffrey stood there, arms crossed against her chest. “We have nothing to say to each other, Peter Burke.” She spat his name out like it tasted rancid in her mouth.

“Actually, we do.” He loomed over her. “This is Neal’s day – you will be the kind and loving woman who raised him. You will do nothing – you understand – nothing to give him a single moment’s distress.”

Ellen swallowed, and the earlier fierceness disappeared, leaving just an old, tired woman behind. She looked him in the eyes, finally. “I overreacted when he came out – and I’m sorry about that. I’m not a bigot. I’m not a homophobe.”

Instead of voicing his real feelings ( _‘You could have fooled me,’_ ), he just said, “I can’t force you to accept us.” Peter stepped back, giving them both some breathing room. “But Neal loves you, he still needs you. You were the mother that his mother should have been and this estrangement has hurt him terribly.”

Ellen’s posture sent up signals. Her arms weren’t crossed anymore; she was hugging herself, as if to ward off an attack. Peter’s gut told him that there was something else going on. Something he should have seen before. But this wasn’t the time or the place to ask those questions.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are. Just by being here, you’re going to make Neal very happy. He’ll always love you, even if you can’t accept our relationship. You’re the only family he has left.” Neal never talked about how much this estrangement had affected him, but Peter could see the hurt during every holiday, every birthday, when Ellen never called. He had seen the light in Neal’s eyes dim at his aunt’s absence from both his college and his law school graduation.

Ellen nodded. “Yes, I am.” That’s all she said and maybe that was all that was necessary.

He offered her his arm, and she hesitated only for a moment before putting her hand through the crook in his elbow. They joined his parents and made their way to the central auditorium where the graduation services were held.

They found seats and Peter left them for a few moments. He spotted one of his favorite instructors and wanted to say hello. He didn’t expect to run into his boss.

“Agent Hughes.” This was definitely awkward.

“Burke.” Hughes nodded at him, seeming unsurprised to find him here.

He really didn’t know what to say, but was spared the embarrassment of appearing like an idiot when Hughes moved on without further comment. Peter sighed with relief. The house lights dimmed and he went back to sit with his parents.

Peter was amused. The speech by the Academy Director was identical to the one given four years ago, and would probably be the same one given four years hence. He listened with barely half an ear, instead scanning the lower tier seating, where the graduating class was seated. He thought he spotted Neal in the first row, but he couldn’t be sure.

The Director stepped aside and an instructor started speaking about the extraordinary intellectual efforts required of all the agent-trainees. Peter had heard this one too, but it was the preface to the announcement of the highest achieving academic effort. Four years ago, he had won that honor, and the firearms proficiency award too. It would be sweet if Neal got either of those.

He did.

And every other honor and recognition bestowed on a graduating trainee. The little shit didn’t even tell him that he was voted as the graduating class representative. His three minute speech was typical Neal, clever and earnest. Joy blossomed in his heart; this was his best friend, his life’s partner. Was there any doubt that he should be to one to speak for his class?

This also meant that Neal was going to get his choice of assignments, and the tiny knot of worry – that they’d be separated for an indefinite amount of time - unraveled. Art Crime would never know what hit them.

At last it was time for each of the trainees to receive their badge and credentials from the Director. When Neal’s name was called, Peter heard a small sob and looked down. Ellen was crying.

“His father would have been so proud.”

He squeezed her hand. “Are you proud of him?”

She didn’t take her eyes from the stage, but answered in that same low voice. “Yes, very much.”

“Then tell him.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal made his way through the crowd of new agents and their families, accepting everyone’s congratulations and good wishes. He stopped a few times to exchange words with a few instructors, all the while keeping an eye out for the tall, broad shape of a certain FBI agent.

And there he was, smiling and perfect. Neal had to physically stop himself from reaching out to Peter. _Not here, not now_. The past five months might have well have been five years. 

Peter tilted his head just slightly to his left and Neal’s heart almost stopped. 

It was almost seven years since Neal had seen his aunt, seven years since she told him he was not fit to carry the Caffrey name. Peter had expected his own parents to toss him to the curb when they came out; Neal never considered that his Aunt Ellen would be the one to utter such damning words.

This probably wasn’t the best place to have such a portentous reunion, but Neal was going to grab onto it with both hands. She held out her arms and he stepped into them, holding her close. She felt small and frail; the once tough-as-nails city cop had become a little old lady. 

He hoped he wasn’t crying. That definitely would not do, not on his first day as an FBI agent. Ellen finally let go after whispering how proud she was, how proud his father would be. The words were a balm to wounds he never wanted to acknowledge. 

Neal turned and Aunt Cathy and Uncle Joe were there, too. Both of them made much of all of the honors he had received and he snuck a quick glance at Peter. It was a weird feeling to out-do him – he hadn’t expected to and he’d give them all back if Peter was jealous.

But from the proud look in his eyes, that was the last thing Neal needed to worry about.

There was cake and coffee for the graduates and their guests. Aunt Ellen and Peter’s parents hovered, not giving him the briefest moment alone with Peter. He spotted Agent Hughes talking with the Director, and Neal hoped he wouldn’t come over any say anything before he had the chance to tell Peter about his probationary assignment. Or worse, that Peter would see Agent Hughes and want to introduce him to his boss. He excused himself on the pretense of retrieving his stuff from the dorm room, hoping that Peter would get the hint. 

He did, falling into step as he left the auditorium.

“Hey there.” Neal winced, not the most eloquent of phrases. He had so much to say and didn’t know how to start.

“Hey, yourself.” Peter just strolled alongside him, an easy smile on his lips.

“The place must bring back memories?”

“Hmmm, I guess. Nothing to get nostalgic over.”

Neal bit his lip, a little hurt by Peter’s seeming indifference. He said nothing else until they turned to the corridor where his room was. He casually told Peter, “My roommate cleared out last night. I guess he wanted one last evening on the town before shipping out to Kansas for his probationary assignment.”

“There’s no FBI field office in Kansas,” Peter commented.

“Nope, there isn’t. Walter got assigned to a Resident Agency.” Neal had written quite a bit about his slacker roommate in his letters to Peter.

Peter chuckled. “So, we have the room to ourselves?”

“Yeah.” Still unnerved by Peter’s attitude and the fact he still hadn’t asked him about where he was assigned, Neal fumbled a bit with his key. He finally got the door open.

Peter pushed him into the room. He hit the light switch, kicked the door shut, turned the lock and fell on Neal like a lion on his prey. Peter shoved him against the wall, shoved a leg between his thighs, and pulled at his clothes like a mad man.

It killed Neal, but he pushed Peter away. “Wait, wait – we can’t. Not here.”

“Oh, yes we can.” Peter kissed him, and Neal couldn’t resist, he didn’t want to resist. He had ached for Peter’s touch for five months, and here he was. Peter’s mouth on his, opening him up, filling him. Neal kissed him back; savoring the taste of those lips, the faint hint of toothpaste and coffee and the overwhelming flavor of Peter Burke.

They tumbled back onto Neal’s bed, Peter’s long frame fitting perfectly against him, his hips bucking against Neal’s, Peter’s cock like a hot beast, Peter’s hands on him; it was enough to make him crazy, enough to make him forget about the people waiting for them.

“Missed you so _fucking_ much, missed fucking you so much.” Peter had captured his hands, held them tight above his head, his other hand working at his belt. “I thought I could wait – until tonight. But seeing you up there, on the podium – so beautiful, so perfect. And no one knows that you’re mine. You’re all mine.”

He rutted against him; Neal knew they’d be ruined in a few minutes if they didn’t get control of themselves. But Peter was making it impossible, his possessive words, his kisses – the man was a damn barbarian and Neal loved it. 

“Peter – please. We have to stop. We …”

Peter kissed him, his tongue in his mouth as effective as a gag. But Neal pulled away. “I can’t go back out there looking like you just fucked me. Stop.” He actually used some of the hand-to-hand combat maneuvers he learned in training and flipped Peter over. Neal ended up crouching over Peter, who looked up at him like he’d just won an Olympic medal; the earlier ravening hunger was now blended with love and pride. 

“We can’t do this now.” Neal got off Peter, and retreated to the other side of the room.

“Then why did you bring me here?” Peter’s smile was pure enticement.

“We have to talk.”

The smile dropped from Peter’s face, replaced with concern. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing – nothing bad. At least I hope not.”

“Neal, what’s going on?” 

He licked his lips, unaccountably nervous. “You know that I really wanted a posting with Art Crimes, right?”

“Yeah, that’s all you’ve talked about. You can’t tell me that they didn’t give it to you.”

“Yeah, they did. Even though there hasn’t been a probationary assignment with that unit in a decade.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Art Crime is moving to D.C.”

Peter jumped up, ran his hand through his hair. “Shit. Shit. Shit.” He flopped back down on the bed, dejection in every line of his face. “I guess we can still have some weekends together.”

Neal sat down and draped an arm around Peter’s shoulders, pretending to commiserate with him. “Hmm, we could always rendezvous at the Bellevue in Philadelphia. You can take the train from New York.”

Peter gave him a puzzled look. “Isn’t that where people caught Legionnaire’s Disease?”

“It’s been redone – and it’s now a four star hotel. I stayed there a few times on business.”

Peter shrugged; dejection in every line of his body. “If that’s what we have to do, we’ll do it. But I am going to miss you so much.”

Neal took pity on Peter, it wouldn’t be fair to let this go one a moment longer. “But the good thing is, we won’t have to. I turned it down.”

Peter blinked. “What?”

“Art Crime is losing most of their budget – and I was strongly counseled not to take the assignment.” Neal plowed on, “Even so, as soon as I heard that the placement was in D.C., I knew I wasn’t going to take it. There was no way I was going to accept an assignment so far away from you.” He grinned and kissed Peter.

“You little …” But Peter was grinning too. “You’re going to drive me crazy. So – where are you going?”

Neal bit his lip and tried hard not to burst out laughing. They had this conversation once before, hadn’t they? “White Collar. Your boss, Hughes, came down from New York yesterday to make his pitch. And if I’m a good boy, I get to work on any art theft cases that hit the office.” When Peter didn’t say anything, Neal had to ask, “You’re okay with this, right? I was also offered a spot with Anti-Crime – and AD Bancroft would probably still be willing to take me on.”

“Of course I’m okay with it – but we’re going to have to be so careful.” Peter was serious, but his eyes were glowing.

“Just so you know, I told Hughes that we’ve been best friends since junior high and that we lived together when we were at Harvard. He was just concerned that I would be able to take orders from you. I didn’t tell him that I already know how you like your coffee.”

“You are a real pisser, Caffrey.”

“But you love me anyway?” 

Peter’s snort of laughter was all the answer he needed. “We better get going – our folks are going to wonder what we’re doing.”

“Oh, I think they could probably guess.” Neal couldn’t help but snicker. He looked in the mirror to fix his shirt and tie, and comb his hair. Peter had thoroughly mauled him. By the time they made their way back to the auditorium, most of the new agents and their families were leaving. Peter’s parents and his aunt were talking with, of all people, Agent Hughes.

“Burke, Caffrey.” Hughes greeted them. “Any reason why you left your family just hanging around?”

Neal hoped he wasn’t flushing, although his face felt hot. “I needed to, umm, get, umm, I – I needed to tell Peter about my assignment. I thought it best to do it in private.” Hughes’ stern expression didn’t change. “Sir.”

The laser focus of those pale gray eyes shifted to Peter. “Do you have any problems with Caffrey working in the unit?”

Peter, probably well-accustomed to his boss’ severe demeanor, was far more confident. “No, not in the least.” To Neal’s relief, he didn’t elaborate. 

Agent Hughes looked – or was that glared – at both of them, said goodbye to Neal’s aunt and Peter’s parents, told them not to be late on Monday morning, there was a full schedule, and left. Neal breathed a sigh of relief.

Aunt Ellen held out her arm, “Neal, walk with me.” He tucked his hand in hers, and was again startled by her frailness. They led the way out into the bright spring afternoon.

“I’m sorry.” She squeezed his hand.

Neal couldn’t speak.

“I was wrong, for so many reasons.”

Neal turned to face her, distantly aware that Peter and his folks were somewhere nearby, that there were other people around. “I – I never thought that you would have been the one to cut us off. You were always so open-minded, so fair. You once smacked my ass for calling someone a faggot – and then you called me that. You told me that you were ashamed I was my father’s son.” His voice was low, but he couldn’t keep the pain out. 

Ellen clung to his hand, squeezing tightly. “I know – and I am sorry. I have been sorry for every moment since.”

“Then why? Why did you cut me off? Why did you wait so long?” A thought occurred to Neal. “Are you ill?” 

She shook her head, “No. I’m just old and tired. And filled with regrets.” 

The silence grew uncomfortable, and Neal was unwilling to let this estrangement go on a moment longer. “Can we … be a family again?” Tears clogged his throat. “I’ve missed you.” Of all the places he hoped to have this conversation, a parking lot at Quantico was not even on the list.

“Of course, if you can forgive me.”

Neal could have simply said, ‘Of course,’ but he needed to know if his aunt was truly reconciled to his orientation, his relationship with Peter, or if she was going to ignore it and pretend that he was straight. “I love Peter, he loves me. We’ve been together for over ten years and nothing is going to change that. We aren’t going to pretend otherwise.”

His aunt accepted that - or seemed to. “I just want you to be happy. To be safe. Not to have a life where you have to hide all the time.” Ellen shook her head, as if she wanted to say something else.

A car pulled up next to them, it was the Burkes, and Peter was driving the family sedan. He helped his aunt into the back seat, stowed his gear in the trunk and went to get in the car. In the interim, Uncle Joe moved to the back seat. “Thought you boys would like to sit together.”

Peter’s parents insisted on taking them out for a late lunch at a too-expensive Italian restaurant to celebrate, and Aunt Cathy slapped his hand when he tried to pay the bill. Neal should have taken care of it beforehand, but he was a little too overwhelmed by everything. Peter. New York. Aunt Ellen.

He wasn’t the type of guy who looked for shadows on a bright summer day, but damn – there had to be another shoe waiting to drop somewhere, certainly.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter was striving for patience, but it wasn’t working. He was horny. Sexual frustrated. Hard as a two-by-four.

And there was nothing he could do about it. 

“Aunt Ellen – are you staying in DC tonight?” Neal was solicitous, his tone loving and concerned. Aunt and nephew may have reconciled, but he knew Neal. He *knew* him and Peter could tell how strained Neal was. They’d have to talk about this later.

“No, I have an early evening flight back to Fort Lauderdale.” She looked first to Peter, then to his parents. “If someone could drop me off at National?”

His dad licked the last of the tiramisu off his spoon and casually said, “The boys are staying in D.C. tonight and taking the train back on Sunday, but Cathy and I will be happy to drop you at the airport.”

Ellen flushed at the mention of him and Neal – maybe she wasn’t as reconciled to the thought of the two of them together as she had seemed. But then she smiled at Neal and gave him a speaking look. Peter wasn’t sure what her message was.

The minor argument Neal and his parents were having over the check distracted him, and when his mother slapped Neal’s hand, he gave up with good grace. “This is your celebration, sweetie.” 

At last, everyone got up to leave. Peter got up slowly, the boner in his pants making it difficult to stand. He fastened is suit jacket, grateful for the long cut. Neal was laughing at him, he was certain of that.

He loved his mother and father and would never begrudge them a moment of his time, but damn it to hell, it’d been five months. 

Five long, lonely, celibate months. 

If they didn’t leave soon, he was going to commit an act of public indecency. He’d have no choice. Then Neal looked at him, his blue eyes twinkling – he knew exactly what was going through his head. When he got Neal alone, he was going to make him pay for this. Something they’d both enjoy.

The valet pulled up with his parents’ car and everyone made their farewells. Peter paid special attention to Ellen and Neal. His gut was telling him something, and he knew he should listen. Just not now.

“Want to walk back to the hotel?” Neal had his hands in his pockets, completely unconcerned about Peter’s near-fatal case of blue balls.

Peter didn’t think he’d be able to make it; he held a hand out and for once in his life, a cab just miraculously appeared. He turned back to Neal, who also had a hand out, but with a folded twenty between his fingers.

He didn’t say anything, just opened the door and let Neal slide in.

“The Woodley Park Sheraton, please.” Neal gave the cabbie their direction.

They sat side by side, thighs touching, but that was it. Peter wondered if there would ever come a time where he’d be able to sling an arm around Neal and hold him close, not having to worry about public censure, damage to their careers, or getting their heads bashed in by bigots with iron pipes.

Peter was certain that all the blood in his body was concentrated in his dick, especially since the only coherent thoughts in his head were about getting Neal naked, touching him, fucking him. The last time it had been _this_ bad was when he was in high school. It was almost embarrassing - wait, no. It *was* embarrassing - he was twenty-nine years old, not some horny-toad teenager who couldn’t keep it in his pants. He’d been there, done that, and it had almost killed him. 

Neal didn’t seem the least bit aroused. He sat there, looking out the window, as remote and untouchable as the moon. Thinking back on this afternoon, how Neal called a halt to their lovemaking, Peter began to wonder if maybe Neal didn’t want him anymore. He could have given Neal a quick blow job - he knew how to prime him, how to get him going, how to make him come like a freight train in a matter of minutes. Especially when they had been apart for so long. 

Maybe there was someone else, maybe it was over. He clenched his fists, then forced his hands to relax. It was stupid to be this insecure. Neal wasn’t breaking up with him. Hadn’t he given up on his dream of working in Art Crime so that they could be in the same city?

“You okay?”

Those were the first words Neal had said to him since they got into the cab. “Yeah, fine. Just …” He looked down at his crotch.

“Hmmm - yeah. Same problem.” Neal shifted on the seat, and his jacket slipped from in front of his fly, revealing his own rather massive erection. They grinned at each other and Peter felt his anxiety slip away. It was just like old times.

The cab pulled up in front of the hotel and Neal paid the taxi driver. Peter followed him, trying not to limp. Neal didn’t say a word, but would occasionally look over at him, that fucking beautiful, completely knowing smile on his lips.

They had the elevator to themselves and Peter reached across Neal to press the button for their floor. To his complete shock and utter delight, Neal reached out too. He stroked Peter’s hand, from wrist to fingers, cupping his hand, his thumb rubbing across the big bone at his wrist. 

Peter thought he’d faint from that touch. It wasn’t lascivious, it wasn’t a gesture of desire. It was the simple affirmation that they belonged to each other. 

The car stopped at their floor, and Neal didn’t let go. “Take me to your room.”

Peter swallowed against the lump in his throat. Without conscious thought, his hand - the one that Neal had shackled - turned and took hold. Their fingers tangled, and they walked down the quiet hallway, hand in hand. He caught a glimpse of them, linked together like lovers, so beautiful - and not wrong. Never wrong - but dangerous.

He stopped at his room, not breaking that vital contact with Neal to retrieve his key. When they had arrived at the hotel, Peter thought he’d barely be able to contain himself; desire, pent up and then thwarted, was riding him hard. But Neal’s gentle touch steadied him, calmed the urgency, made him understand that from this moment, they had the rest of their lives. The almost terrible need riding him eased, transforming into something purer, simpler.

A gentle tug and they were standing in the center of the room.

“Alone at last.” Neal smile was pure sweetness, and he reached out for him. 

But Peter stepped back. “Wait.”

“What’s the matter?”

“This moment’s going to come just once - I …” He felt himself blushing. “I want to savor it.” It sounded so silly - like they were bride and groom and this was their wedding night.

Neal didn’t laugh, he didn’t make a snide, snappy comment. He just stood there, radiating joy. 

When Peter reached for him, Neal stepped closer, and started to undress him.

“No, not tonight. Let me take care of you. Please.”

“Peter -” His name was an exhalation of frustration and desire.

“Shh - just let me…” He rested his hands on Neal’s shoulders, settling him down.

“Is this payback for this morning?”

He kissed Neal, just the corner of his mouth. “No - no. I just want to go slowly. I want this to be about you, for you. Can you understand that?”

“Peter, what’s the matter?” Concern, worry tinged Neal’s voice.

He touched Neal’s cheek, sliding his fingers into his curls. “How many times do I just take you? Overwhelm you? It’s like I want to put a sign around your neck that says “Property of Peter Burke, touch at your own peril.”

“You don’t think that I … that I would ever cheat on you? Look at someone else?” Neal was appalled.

“No - god no. I know you - and that isn’t what I mean.” Peter licked his lip, trying to find the words. “It’s just that I know that I’m a bit brutal sometimes - I take over. Like this morning - I wouldn’t have given a second thought to what you really wanted if you hadn’t stopped me.”

Neal put his hand over Peter’s mouth, quieting him. “Listen to me - I love you. I love what you do to me, how you make me feel. If I didn’t, don’t you think I’m strong enough, smart enough to tell you? I have free will, you know. If I didn’t love what you did to me, I’d make it very clear. And you belong to me as much as I belong to you.” Neal slid his hand from Peter’s mouth to his jaw, his fingers like a hot brand. “Got that?”

Peter nodded. “But tonight, it’s got to be special. Please?” He hoped he didn’t sound as pathetic to Neal as he did to his own ears.

“You don’t have to beg, you know.”

Of course he didn’t - that was part of what was driving him now - this need not to just take over, but he was. He couldn’t do this any other way. 

Neal just stood there, waiting. Expectant, not passive. Peter was simply overwhelmed by the richness of his feelings. The echoes of a verse whispered to him, and if he was mildly embarrassed before, his cheeks felt scalding now. But he didn’t let that stop him. He kissed him, trying not to be the conquerer, trying to be the man who loved, who was loved. Neal hummed his pleasure into his mouth, and Peter found the words he needed. Yes, someone else wrote them, but they were perfect for this moment.

 

_“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways… ”_ He waited for a moment, for the inevitable snicker of derision. But it didn’t come. Neal’s smile, if possible, grew sweeter. Peter slid his hands to Neal’s shoulders, then under the suit jacket. He pushed it down, off Neal’s arms and it dropped to the floor. His hands now rested on Neal’s biceps, the heat of his skin warming his palms through the fine cotton shirt. 

_“I love thee to the depth and breadth and height…”_ Peter ran his hands down Neal’s arms to his wrists, and discovered that his shirt cuffs were French, his cufflinks solid gold. He had to smile. FBI agent or not, Neal’s wouldn’t be Neal without his love of fine clothes. Peter worked one cuff open, then the other. He slipped the cufflinks into his jacket pocket for safekeeping, and the gold tie bar joined them. Neal just stood there, accepting Peter’s ministrations. He loosened Neal’s tie, the sound of silk sliding free was startlingly loud.

Words filled that silence. _“My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight…”_ The buttons of Neal’s shirt were undone, but he waited, relishing the moment before the reveal. When Neal lifted his hands to finish taking the garment off, Peter pushed them away, stripping off the shirt himself. He finally made contact with that beloved flesh. It was still as familiar as ever, but there were changes. The months of physical conditioning added mass - there was muscle and definition and Peter fought to retain all his good intentions. There would be time to challenge Neal, time to explore the strength those physical changes brought. 

_“For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.”_ He had to lay his lips on Neal’s body, pressing hot, moist kisses against one shoulder, then the other. Peter’s lips trailed across his collarbone, his thumbs resting on Neal’s torso, just below his tight nipples. He moved around Neal, cradling his body, holding him loosely when all he wanted was to clutch Neal hard against him. 

He whispered, _“I love thee to the level of everyday's most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.”_ Neal leaned back against Peter, his head resting on his shoulder, a moment of perfect trust. Peter’s hands cupped Neal’s hips, relishing the strength there. And yes, his cock - which not so many minutes ago seemed to control his every thought - took its own pleasure, riding between Neal’s buttocks. When Neal rocked back against him, Peter wrapped his arms around his waist, stilling him. This was not about his own pleasure - not yet.

_“I love thee freely, as men strive for right … ”_ The words continued to fall from his lips, an affirmation as well as a seduction. There was no embarrassment anymore - the poetry was a perfect reflection of his feelings. Whatever the world thought of them, it would change nothing. They were who they were, and there was no shame that could diminish that. 

_“I love thee purely, as they turn from praise…”_ Neal laughed, a little huff of a chuckle at the word “purely” and Peter had to grin, too, as his hands wandered along Neal’s belly, toying with the taut skin around his navel, fucking it ever so gentle with his index finger while his other hand sought harder flesh below. He couldn’t wait any longer, nor could Neal, and they both fumbled with Neal’s belt buckle. Neal actually growled in frustration, and Peter shushed him with a kiss at his temple. Finally, Neal’s pants dropped to the floor, followed by his underwear. Peter wanted to laugh again - was there anything more ridiculous as a man in black socks and shoes? Except that this was Neal and he was perfect. Peter let him toe off his shoes, but he dropped to his knees and stroked Neal from thigh to calf before pulling off his socks. Looking up at him, Peter had to wonder if there was any more perfect creature in the universe. He could have ended this slow, wordy seduction, he could have taken Neal’s cock in his mouth and made him whine in pleasure. He could have pulled him down and done everything he’d been dreaming about for the last five months - everything that Neal wanted to, but when Neal reached out and touched his temple, Peter knew he had to finish what he started.

_“I love thee with a passion put to use in my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.”_ Neal whispered that line, and Peter was struck by the truth of those words. In that moment, Neal stopped being a passive recipient of Peter’s adoration. He pulled him to his feet and led him to the bed.

They both spoke, Neal’s lips against Peter’s ear as he tugged at his clothes, the words a verbal tattoo. _“I love thee with a love I seemed to lose…”_ Peter breathed his own words against Neal’s shoulder, hot and cold, all sensation focused on that point. They tumbled on the bed, Neal moving restlessly under him. “I need you, I need you now. Please.”

Peter stripped and climbed back over Neal, climbed into his arms, between the cradle of Neal’s thighs. Their bodies working together - skin dragging despite the slickness of their sweat, the friction was a perfect accompaniment to their desire. The rest of the words, the rest of the world, was lost to the rhythm of his body against Neal’s - so familiar and so new again. Desire flared and Peter couldn’t hold back - not against the twin goads of Neal’s hands and his lips. Intentions to take this first coupling slow, to draw it out to infinity were lost. Neal panted his name, panted his love and desire climaxed. He spilled himself on Neal, and Neal came seconds later.

Sticky, spent, and utterly happy, he held Neal close, the rest of the lines from that sonnet all but forgotten. “I love you, no matter what comes, I will love you until the day I die, and will love you until eternity comes to a grinding halt.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

In all the years that they had been together, Peter had never deliberately set out to seduce him, to make him feel so completely beloved. They were guys, and Peter - even a year shy of his thirtieth - still had the sex drive of a billy goat. Sex was never ordinary, routine. Peter was so joyfully dominant that Neal thought he’d have to be dust and bones before he’d stop responding to that. But what just passed between them was a unique moment - not just for the poetry, though Peter reciting poetry as he made love to him was beyond wonderful. It was the care, the restraint that Peter exercised.

Neal realized from the aborted encounter in his dorm room at Quantico, all through that long, almost torturous lunch and the cab ride back to the hotel, that Peter was riding a knife-edge of control. He was anticipating the beast, knowing that as soon as they were alone, Peter would overwhelm him. Of course he never minded that - it was Peter’s nature to control and his, to be controlled - but only by Peter. Only Peter. And yet, a part of him craved something slower, gentler. He didn’t expect it today - and maybe that was what made it so exquisite. He didn’t know what happened, he didn’t know how Peter tamed his desire. And at this point, he didn’t care. 

Peter snuggled against him, his hand rested, heavy and possessive, on his semen-coated belly. Neal brushed his lips against Peter’s forehead and carefully extricated himself. Beautiful seduction aside, they’d end up glued together if he didn’t clean them up. Neal made a quick trip to the bathroom, wiped himself down with warm washcloth, and took another to clean Peter.

Neal stood there, looking at his sleeping lover - he missed this so much. Not just the sex, but falling asleep in the sticky messiness of the aftermath. It was a symbol of the comfortable relationship they had together, that they could just be - no masks, no lies, no need to pretty it up. His lips twisted - at least no masks and lies with each other. To the world, it was all masks and lies and impenetrable facades.

If they had to tread carefully in their years since Harvard, it was going to be worse now. Working together, and not as equals. The risks were terrible, even deadly. Neal couldn’t help but remember Peter’s uncle, his life cut short by intolerance.

Peter muttered something, reaching across the bed, interrupting Neal’s reverie. He sat down next to him and cleaned his lover up. Peter opened his eyes and smiled, reminding Neal of a sleepy lion, satisfied with the results of his hunt. “There you are.” 

He tossed the washcloth onto the nightstand and leaned over Peter, kissing him. “Yes, here I am.” 

“Hmmm, you’re still too far away.” Peter pulled him down, until he was laying on top of him. “That’s better.”

Neal tucked himself into the shelter of Peter’s body, rested his forehead against his shoulder. “It frightens me how much I love you.”

Peter held him close, understanding everything that Neal wasn’t saying. “We’ll be all right, trust me.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this work is taken from the poem Peter recites to Neal - Sonnet XLIII from Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s _Sonnets From The Portuguese_. Peter’s long forgotten English teacher would probably be proud that he could recite the verse, and appalled at the circumstances!
> 
> Peter inadvertently paraphrased the last three lines of the sonnet:  
>  _With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath,_  
>  Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,   
> I shall but love thee better after death. 


End file.
